


A Weird Place

by toyhto



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, First Time, Getting Together, Just raising their kid and being confused, M/M, Parentlock, Post-Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, Virgin Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-21
Updated: 2017-01-21
Packaged: 2018-09-19 00:17:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9408959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toyhto/pseuds/toyhto
Summary: John is always there. It's weird. It's brilliant.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This story happens pretty much right after The Final Problem and might have spoilers about season 4 all over it.
> 
> And beware that I know nothing about children and very little about science.

“So, we have this kid.”  
  
John puts the newspaper aside and looks at him with a frown. “Rosie.”  
  
“Yes, that’s her name,” he says, biting back something that might have been _obviously._ He has done quite a bit of that lately. He has also been holding back from rolling his eyes.  
  
221B Baker Street has become a weird place.  
  
“Sherlock,” John says with a wary voice. Sherlock tries not to get offended. It’s not like he hasn’t done some very stupid things in the past. Like, last week when he left the files of a particularly detailed murder case lying in general direction where the kid was heading. “Where is this going?”  
  
He sighs and sits onto his chair, facing John. Obviously, it’s weird to have a kid around. But what is much less obvious, he supposes, is that the weirdest thing is to have John around. All the time. Not just when there’s an especially interesting case going on. Not just one evening every now and then. Mornings, afternoons, evenings, nights, John is always there.  
  
It’s weird. It’s brilliant.  
  
Sometimes he’s not quite sure what to do with it. Then he ignores John and John snaps at him and smiles by himself afterwards.  
  
“You want to sleep at night,” he says, and John straightens his back, still on the armchair. The gesture isn’t very convincing.  
  
“Like any normal human being.”  
  
“Exactly. And you realize that I’m around now. Sober and all. Obviously.”  
  
John stares at him. He stares back even though there’s this nervous feeling in his stomach, and staring at John isn’t helping.  
  
“Last night I read six articles and solved two boring cases. I slept three hours. I can very well take a break from my reading, when she starts to make that awful noise, and hold her for a while.”  
  
John frowns. “Are you sure?”  
  
“You taught me to hold her. You said you weren’t so scared anymore.”  
  
There’s something in John’s eyes. Perhaps a smile. Too risky to make a guess, must have more evidence first. He swallows and John clears his throat. “Well, yes. These days you seem to realize which way goes up.”  
  
“I _definitely_ do.”  
  
“It was a joke,” John says, “kind of. Sherlock, what you’re saying, it’s… you’re taking responsibility. Of her. My daughter.”  
  
“Yes, I know who she is. And I’ve been doing that all along, ever since –“  
  
“I know,” John says, squirming in his armchair. “It’s very…”  
  
Sherlock waits. John looks at him. Sometimes it’s just quite a lot to cope with. He has been wondering if it was a good idea to get sunglasses.  
  
“…nice.” John presses his mouth shut. It’s obvious what he’s going to say next. “ _Sherlock._ I’m sorry.”  
  
“Yes, I know,” he says, “me, too.”  
  
“For everything.”  
  
“Yes. That one.”  
  
John goes to grab Rosie, who seems to be trying to eat the newspaper. Fortunately she only got the culture pages ripped. Sherlock watches John and John watches their weird kid trying to smash the head of a pop-star.  
  
“You can always wake me up, you know,” John says, when Rosie has given up.  
  
“I’d prefer not to. You are always so cranky when you wake up in the middle of the night.”  
  
“You would know.”  
  
He goes to hide in the kitchen. It should be obvious that those fingertips could have waited for a few hours more, but John is John. There’s a fair chance that he’ll miss it.  
  
  
**  
  
  
“You’re really doing that.”  
  
He sighs. There are only seven pages left and he is just about to know something important about how rabbits’ pupils react to light. Rosie is quite heavy, though.  
  
“You look like you’re uncomfortable.”  
  
“You look like you’re awake. Go back to sleep, John.”  
  
“I should be the one doing that. I’m her father.”  
  
“Thanks for bringing that up, since I hadn’t noticed.”  
  
John goes quiet. Perhaps Sherlock meant it to happen, but he regrets it anyway. He gives up on rabbits’ pupils and walks to John with Rosie leaning heavily against his shoulder. John looks far more tired than Sherlock feels.  
  
“I didn’t mean it like that,” John says.  
  
“It’s fine.” He stops in front of John, but John doesn’t make a move to take Rosie.  
  
“No, it’s not. I wasn’t trying to imply that you’d be less… less of a parent to her.”  
  
“But I am. Take her. I’m going to sit on my sofa empty-handed and solve that absolutely boring bicycle theft for Greg.”  
  
“She’s not going to remember her but she’ll _know_ you.”  
  
He sighs. Rosie mutters something completely idiotic, which might be a sign that she’s falling asleep again. “I’m sorry.”  
  
“Yes, of course,” John says shaking his head quite warily, “but I didn’t… I just meant… you will be a real parent for her. You will be there when she grows up, unless…”  
  
“Unless I overdose with something lethal,” he says, covering Rosie’s left ear with his palm.  
  
“Unless you get bored,” John says.  
  
He opens his mouth, then closes it, then opens it again. He must look like a gold fish or, what is worse, a regular person. “John.”  
  
“Yes, yes,” John says, not looking at him, “you aren’t planning to. But you get bored of _murders_ if they don’t have enough detail for your taste.”  
  
“That’s unfair,” he says “totally unfair. It’s different when it comes to crimes. And besides, I can assure you that you and Rosie both have plenty of detail.”  
  
“I’m sure,” John says. Rosie is definitely sleeping now. Also drooling. “You know, sometimes I just stop and think and then I realize we don’t know what the hell we’re doing.”  
  
“No swearing in front of the kid, please. And of course you don’t. It’s called life.”  
  
“You read about it.”  
  
“Last night. I was bored.”  
  
John smiles. Sherlock smiles and then yawns. John stretches for Rosie and Sherlock surrenders her. His shoulder feels quite empty.  
  
“She is definitely going to sleep now,” John says, “and so are we.”  
  
“I’ll stay on the sofa, so I can hum to her if she wakes up.”  
  
“You don’t have to do that.”  
  
“Your humming is very off-key, John. It’s not good for her musical development. Also I’m doing it anyway and if you argue you’re going to start swearing soon. You’ll be very bitter in the future when she has no talent in music and she can’t express her emotions without constant swearing.”  
  
“And you think you can?” John mutters. “Okay. _Fine._ Be a deadly tired father if you wish.”  
  
“Thank you, I will.”  
  
John lays Rosie down onto the crib that has been recently placed next to Sherlock’s sofa.  
  
“Good night,” John says, standing in the doorway.  
  
“Good night,” he answers without looking.  
  
  
**  
  
  
“Have you ever thought,” John says, hiding behind a huge cup of tea, “that perhaps we need to move?”  
  
“Absolutely not,” he says. “Why?”  
  
“Well, Rosie won’t be a baby forever,” John says, and Sherlock ignores the urge to comment on the utter obviousness of the statement. ”She will go to school and someone will tell her that usually kids don’t share bedrooms with their fathers.”  
  
“She’s been sleeping in the living room for a month.”  
  
“I don’t think it’s much better. I can’t imagine living anywhere else, but…”  
  
“Mrs. Hudson will destroy us if we try to leave,” Sherlock says, and John looks at him, quite beaten. He shouldn’t go on. He definitely shouldn’t. There are some things that are best left unsaid. “John. Surely you realize there’s an obvious solution.”  
  
John frowns at him and takes a step closer. He wants to step back, but he’s holding these body parts he borrowed from Molly two days ago and Mrs. Hudson doesn’t appreciate mess on the carpet.  
  
“Enlighten me.”  
  
“We have two bedrooms,” Sherlock says and swallows. John keeps staring at him.  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“And three people. You, me and Rosie.”  
  
“Yes, I can count.”  
  
“Rosie needs her own bedroom one day.” He bites his teeth onto his lower lip. “The two of us don’t.”  
  
John blinks. “Excuse me?”  
  
“Unless you want to bring someone home,” he says, “you know, to have intimate relations with. But I think it would be awkward anyway, Rosie being here and all.”  
  
John opens his mouth and then blushes. It’s adorable and very unnerving. “Sherlock. _Sherlock._ It’s not… I don’t… I’m not bringing anyone home.”  
  
“No?”  
  
“No,” John says, shaking his head and staring at his own feet now. Sherlock sighs. He hadn’t realized he was holding his breath. “This is how things are now. Surely you see that. You, me, Rosie. And Mrs. Hudson, of course.”  
  
“You’re giving up intimate relations. I thought you liked them.”  
  
“It is what it is,” John says and turns around. “If those body parts don’t go back to Molly today, I’ll call Greg and ask for another file full of bicycle thefts.”  
  
  
**  
  
  
“You didn’t answer me, though,” Sherlock says later.  
  
“What?” John says. He’s reading the newspaper that could as well be upside down, since there hasn’t been any movement in his eyes for at least fifteen minutes. Rosie is sitting on the floor, playing with crumpled paper. It looks quite fun, but Sherlock has to focus on other things now. He almost asked, earlier. Kind of asked. And John didn’t answer.  
  
“I said we don’t need two bedrooms,” he says, and his voice is surprisingly calm, “you and me. Rosie can have her own one day, when she can talk in full sentences and argue for it.”  
  
John sighs. “Yes.”  
  
“Excuse me?”  
  
“You’re right,” John says, not looking at him, not showing any signs of nervous breakdown, “we don’t need two bedrooms. We can very well share.”  
  
“Your bed fits there just fine,” he says.  
  
John raises his eyes to meet his. “Yes. Obviously.”  
  
“Obviously,” he says.  
  
John goes back to not reading the news. Sherlock stares at the town of crumbled pieces of paper Rosie has built. It’s almost like they are saying something and meaning something else. He should google it but somehow he thinks that would not work.  
  
  
**  
  
  
One night he makes a mistake. They come home past midnight. The murderer was the piano teacher, not the bad one but the excellent one. They almost didn’t catch her. Sherlock hasn’t slept in forty-two hours. John hasn’t eaten since breakfast. They’re half-dead and full of adrenaline as they crumble over the threshold into their home. Rosie is with Mrs. Hudson. The exhaustion is overwhelming but the excitement hasn’t quite worn out yet. John collapses onto his armchair and Sherlock lays his hand on John’s shoulder.  
  
He means to take it back but he doesn’t have time. John freezes.  
  
“Sorry,” he says, his hand heavy and very obviously unmoving.  
  
“Shut up,” John says without turning to look at him.  
  
His heart is beating madly. He can’t move and John told him to keep quiet. He tries not to flinch and fails. John inhales deeply and he feels it through the fabric of John’s jumper. He slowly replaces his hand so that his fingertips touch the bare skin on John’s neck. It could probably be interpreted as caressing if he wasn’t so clumsy.  
  
“Sherlock –“  
  
He walks straight into his bedroom, shuts the door and sits down onto the bed. _Oh God._ His breathing isn’t steady. He’s trembling and he’s not sure why.  
  
The weirdness is clearly getting out of hand.  
  
  
**  
  
  
“About that,” John says.  
  
Sherlock freezes. John frowns at his cup of tea. The flat is quiet. They should really go to get Rosie back from Mrs. Hudson.  
  
“John,” Sherlock says, somehow unable to decide whether he ought to sit down or join John in the kitchen. He stays frozen in the middle of the living room. “It’s been nine hours and twenty-three minutes.”  
  
“Counting, are you?” John asks, eyes on his own hands. “Well, yes. We slept quite late.”  
  
“I’m not counting,” Sherlock says, “and I didn’t mean that.”  
  
“Yeah, I know.” John sighs. “I shouldn’t have brought it up, not after nine hours and… whatever it was.”  
  
“Twenty-three minutes. Twenty-four now.”  
  
“I just need to say,” John clears his throat, “that you can, you know. You can.”  
  
He swallows. “I can?”  
  
“Yes,” John says. “That.”  
  
“John?”  
  
John straightens his back and then slowly rises to his feet. Sherlock stands still and perhaps leans on John’s armchair, but he’s not running. _He’s not._ Surely he is. _Definitely not._ He stays even though his pulse has gone quite rapid, and then it’s too late to flee. John stops in front of him and places his hand on his shoulder.  
  
“Ah,” he says.  
  
John nods. _Four seconds._ That’s how long it takes for John to withdraw his hand.  
  
“Yes,” John says, going back to the kitchen with hurried steps. “It’s fine. It’s allowed.”  
  
“Thank you.”  
  
John sighs. “It’s not… you don’t have to _thank_ me, Sherlock. It’s not a reward. It’s just what we are now. We are definitely allowed to do… that.”  
  
“I’m glad,” Sherlock says. His voice is low and perhaps a bit shaky. Must be because he just woke up.  
  
“Me, too,” John says, frowning at his cup of tea again.  
  
  
**  
  
  
“John, I have a question for you.”  
  
John stops playing with miniature cars and looks at him. “What?”  
  
“A question. For you.”  
  
“Yes, I heard you.” John frowns and then catches the yellow car before Rosie eats it. “I just got surprised.”  
  
“I regret to confuse you,” Sherlock says and sits onto his chair, completely ignoring the hunch that he might want to stand for this conversation. For a quick escape, perhaps. “But, you know. The touching.”  
  
“What?” John says, not very helpful.  
  
“I want to get it right.”  
  
“What the… _heck_ are you talking about?”  
  
Sherlock blinks. Rosie looks at him. John might be trying to, but he’s not doing too well. “I touched your shoulder. You said it was fine and touched mine. But you know me. There might be a set of social customs around this type of a thing that I’m completely unaware of, or that I read about years ago and found useless and deleted. If I did that, I regret it, of course. I didn’t anticipate I would need that kind of information.”  
  
“You didn’t think you’d have me,” John says and then coughs.  
  
“Well,” Sherlock says, “yes. I didn’t.”  
  
“But you do,” John says, completely ignoring Rosie who _obviously_ wants the red car now and not the yellow. “You have me now. You know. Like… like this. Whatever it is that this is.”  
  
“Yes,” he says, “but I need instructions. Guidelines. References. Something. If you should have a good article on the subject in mind, that would do it.”  
  
“It wouldn’t,” John says and clears his throat. “We have to talk about this. It’s how people do these kind of things.”  
  
“Well,” Sherlock says. Rosie tries to break free but John is insistent. “Go on. Talk to me.”  
  
“I…” John pauses and shakes his head, "I’m not sure if I can.”  
  
Sherlock leans closer. “Why?”  
  
“What do you want, exactly?” John asks. His tone has gone a bit tense, like he were out of breath. _Weird._ “A list of places you can touch me?”  
  
Sherlock swallows. John is blushing. This is getting out of hand. “Well. That would be very helpful, if you can – “  
  
“No,” John says, quite firmly. Rosie has escaped and aims at Sherlock’s feet now. “It doesn’t work like that, I think.”  
  
“But I need something. I really do. _John._ ”  
  
John takes a very deep breath, leans forward and places his right hand on Sherlock’s left knee. Sherlock tries to say something but can’t catch a single word. He holds his breath and stays still, and John presses his mouth shut and places another hand on another knee.  
  
“So,” John says, “you tell me. Is this fine? Can I do this?”  
  
“Yes,” he says.  
  
“Good. Give me your hand.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Do it,” John tells him and then frowns. “You don’t have to, of course. That’s the point of this.”  
  
Sherlock places his both hands on his thighs, palms up, very near to where John is holding his. He feels sweaty. _Weird._ Uncomfortable.  
  
“Here you go,” he says, when John isn’t reacting.  
  
John presses his teeth onto his lower lip and collects Sherlock’s hands. Sherlock takes a sharp breath he’s not very proud of. John places his hands in between his own and holds them.  
  
“What about this?”  
  
“Still fine,” Sherlock says, “but, you know.”  
  
“But what?” John asks with a calm voice, which is quite unnerving. It’s like John has gone back to being a soldier and Sherlock is the one whose right leg is trembling. “I don’t know, you have to tell me. That’s how it is.”  
  
“My heart is beating.”  
  
Johns grins at him. It’s terrifying.  
  
“Too fast. Obviously I meant that.”  
  
“I know,” John says, the bastard. “I can feel your pulse.”  
  
Sherlock swallows. “Are you teasing me? Are you –“  
  
“No, of course not. _No._ I just… I think this is how it works. I want to hold your hand and you tell me if it’s okay or not. I can’t give you _a list,_ you just have to try and see.”  
  
“You _want_ to hold my hand?”  
  
John looks at their joined hands and flinches a bit. “Well. Yes. Isn’t that –“  
  
“Obvious.” He breaths in. “It kind of is.”  
  
“Good. It should be. I think, at this point it should be.”  
  
“I wish I knew which point that is.”  
  
John slowly lets go and leans on the back of the chair. Sherlock feels oddly disappointed. “I don’t know that either. But we’ll figure it out. We have time.”  
  
Sherlock nods. “We do.”  
  
“For the first time in ages,” John says, watching him.  
  
“Boys,” Mrs. Hudson says and they both jump, “I was just coming to check if you wanted some tea. What an Earth are you doing? Your little girl was pretty close to getting onto the stairs, and judging by the look in her eyes, she was determined to take a taxi.”  
  
“Shit,” John blurts out, rushing to the doorway where Mrs. Hudson is holding Rosie.  
  
“No swearing in front of the kid, John,” Sherlock says.  
  
“Listen to your man, John,” Mrs. Hudson says, and Sherlock stares at his own palms, still a bit shaky. “Now, would you three like some tea?”  
  
  
**  
  
  
“Sherlock,” John says, stopping in the doorway. “Come here.”  
  
“Why?” he hisses. “And why are you awake?”  
  
“She cried half an hour ago.”  
  
“I took care of that.”  
  
“Well, yes. I just couldn’t go back to sleep. Please, come here.”  
  
“She’s sleeping now.”  
  
“ _Sherlock._ ”  
  
He throws a last glance of the main suspect, who clearly didn’t kill the gardener but is trying to hide something else. Perhaps it’s about the shack. John is making his impatient face as Sherlock stands up and nearly hits the tower of toy cars. He steps over ponies and walks to the kitchen.  
  
“No,” John says, “we shouldn’t wake her up. Bedroom.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“I want to,” John says and frowns, “talk. She’ll cry if she needs us. Loudly.”  
  
“Yes,” he says, “but –“  
  
“Come on. Your bedroom.” John glances at Sherlock over his shoulder, already on his way. “Besides, you said you wanted to share.”  
  
He takes a sharp breath. With any luck John didn’t hear that.  
  
John leaves the door slightly opened. Sherlock stops in the middle of the room, turns around and watches John pushing his own shoulders back and staring at him with far too much effort. At least the door isn’t locked.  
  
“I’m lonely,” John says.  
  
Sherlock blinks. “What?”  
  
“Surely you know the word,” John says, too determined, clearly uncomfortable.  
  
“Yes. But you have… Rosie. And Mrs. Hudson. And Mycroft… well, not him, probably. But Greg visits often, and Molly too. If you weren’t so stubborn, you could phone Harry.”  
  
“It’s not what I meant,” John says, sounding like he’s a bit out of breath.  
  
“ _Oh._ You want to bring someone home.” _Obviously._ How could he have missed that? “Intimate relations. You miss intimate relations.”  
  
“No,” John says, standing still but looking absolutely panicked. Sherlock is definitely going to save this image in his mind palace. It will be fascinating later, when he himself isn’t deeply uncomfortable with the current situation. “Or yes, kind of. Please, Sherlock. I’m not going to bring anyone home. I’ve told you that before.”  
  
“I know,” he says, “but you said you were lonely.”  
  
“I wasn’t going to talk about it,” John says, eyes dropping to the floor, “I decided so. Right after we got back here and rebuilt this place and everything went back to normal, or the kind of normal it is these days. I thought it would be better if we just waited and saw how things went. But now I’m… lonely, and… I miss… I _wish_ we could…”  
  
“John,” Sherlock says and clears his throat, “you’re not making any sense.”  
  
“Kissing,” John says and presses his eyes shut for a second, “what do you think of that? Is it possible? Is it something you can see yourself doing some day? Now? Or is it… completely out of the question?”  
  
Sherlock just stares. There’s something wrong with his lungs. “What?”  
  
“Tell me,” John says and fixes his eyes on Sherlock, “that you will never. That it’s just not something you do.”  
  
Sherlock opens his mouth and finds he’s utter idiot who can’t make a sound.  
  
“Just tell me,” John commands.  
  
“No,” he says. He must concentrate. He must think. This is _important._ “Yes. Definitely not. I think. _John._ ”  
  
“I didn’t quite catch that,” John says with a very thin voice.  
  
“It’s definitely not out of the question,” Sherlock says, “if you mean _you._ If you mean that I might kiss _you._ Other people, no. You, yes. Perhaps. Definitely. Though I don’t know how it works.”  
  
“Well,” John says and clears his throat, “good. Great. Amazing. Do you think we could… try?”  
  
Sherlock frowns. “Now?”  
  
“Or not,” John says, takes a step back and almost crashes on the door, “of course not if you don’t want to. I don’t want to rush anything. I don’t want to imagine things. Whatever happens will be fine, as long as there’re you and me and Rosie. It’s fine. Really. Maybe I should go check on her –“  
  
“You should start,” Sherlock says.  
  
John blinks.  
  
“Kissing. You’ll have to start. I don’t know how.”  
  
“Surely you have –“, John pauses and watches him, “seen it on TV?”  
  
“Obviously. You keep watching those weird shows. But I meant that I don’t… like, it seems that there’re all kind of… things involved. Things that people just _know._ Social meanings. Like when is the right time to lean forward and when you have to shut your eyes.”  
  
“It’s really not that hard,” John says, looking absolutely terrified.  
  
“I’ll follow your lead.”  
  
“ _Now?_ ”  
  
“I thought you suggested it,” Sherlock says.  
  
John takes a deep sigh and then another. The flat is quiet. Sherlock’s hands are trembling.  
  
“Okay,” John says finally, “I’m walking over there. Keep still.”  
  
“I will,” he says, though he flinches when John places his hand on his shoulder. John’s thumb is slightly pressing against his clavicle. The fabric of his shirt is too thin for this. John moves his fingers slowly and Sherlock can feel _everything_ . He’s trying to stay still but it’s difficult, when John reaches the bare skin of his neck.  
  
“Now,” John says, “I’ll lean forward. You can shut your eyes if you want to.”  
  
“I don’t think I do,” Sherlock says. His voice is trembling.  
  
John swallows and nods. “That’s fine. It’s all fine. Well, I’ll just…”  
  
John leans forward.  
  
Sherlock closes his eyes.  
  
John kisses him.  
  
Rosie starts to cry.  
  
“Fuck,” John mumbles, fingertips still on Sherlock’s neck, and it seems they’re both out of breath even though the kiss only lasted for three and a half seconds and he still isn’t sure what actually _happened,_ “ _fuck,_ why did she have to wake up _just now_ , like, if she could only give us a few more minutes…”  
  
Rosie cries louder.  
  
“I have to go,” John says and takes his fingertips away.  
  
“I liked it.”  
  
John pauses and looks at him. “You liked it?”  
  
“Yes. Obviously. Now go to her. But try not to swear.”  
  
John stares at him, nods and goes, his mouth still half-open.  
  
Sherlock sits down onto the bed and waits. It takes ages, or twenty-one minutes that feel like ages. He tries to stay calm, even though his pulse doesn’t quite go back to normal. _Kissing. John._ Kissing John. Weird, but absolutely in a good way. _Obviously._ His hands are still shaking. He can’t think. He can’t make sense of this. He has wanted this, something like this, for a long time. Possibly longer than he realizes. But it wasn’t going to happen. It was never going to happen.  
  
“Sherlock?”  
  
Twenty-one minutes have passed. He is sitting on his bed. John stops at the doorway. Rosie keeps her mouth shut. John looks tired and very nervous.  
  
“This is not a game,” Sherlock says. He’s surprised his voice still works. “I don’t know what I’m doing but I’m serious about it. If you get bored of me, I’ll be a wreck.”  
  
“I won’t.”  
  
“I’ll hire someone to look after Rosie and then I’ll go,” he frowns, “but I’ll try to avoid overdosing. You don’t have to worry about that.”  
  
“You won’t go,” John says warily, “because you’re her Dad now. You must keep it together. For her. And for me.”  
  
“I’m talking hypothetically. If you get bored and don’t want me around -“  
  
“Sherlock, I’m so deep into this that I couldn’t get away if my life depended on it. And sometimes it has. I’m completely unable to get bored of you. I can get mad at you just fine but _bored_ is out of my reach. And right now I’m exhausted. Can I sleep here?”  
  
“Excuse me?” Sherlock pauses. John stares at him. “You want to… sleep here?” John nods. “In my… bed?”  
  
“We could just sleep. Unless you want to… kiss. Or something. But we could just, you know, lie next to each other.”  
  
“John,” he says and swallows, “this is quite a lot.”  
  
“I know,” John says. “Trust me, I _know._ Sorry. It’s fine. I can go to my own bed.”  
  
“Don’t.”  
  
“Really?”  
  
“Yes. Though I should warn you, I’ve never slept next to another person unless I was high.”  
  
“I’m an army doctor,” John says, “I can handle you.”  
  
“I know you can.”  
  
“I –“ John stares at him and takes a sharp breath. “Is this flirting? Are we flirting?”  
  
“I deleted that too.”  
  
“No, you didn’t,” John says. “You’re doing just fine.”  
  
“Am I?”  
  
“I’m going to sit down next to you,” John says, “onto your bed, and then I’m going to take my shirt off. You’re doing very well.”  
  
“If you want to sleep here,” Sherlock says, as John sits down and takes his shirt off, and he’s not staring, he’s _not,_ “I wonder if you might be interested in doing something else as well, like the thing we did a while ago, you placing your hand on my… neck.”  
  
“Yes,” John says, “I would.”  
  
  
**  
  
  
“John, there’s something I have to bring to your attention.”  
  
“Oh God,” John says, “if you have contaminated the fridge again, I swear I’m going to call Mycroft. You can’t keep doing that. We have _a child_ now, it’s just not –“  
  
“No,” he says, absently wondering if Mycroft were to laugh at John or just sneer, “it’s not that at all. I’ve never had sex.”  
  
John blinks. “What?”  
  
“Sex. I’ve never done it.”  
  
“Sherlock,” John hisses, leaning over the kitchen table, “Rosie is _right there._ ”  
  
Sherlock frowns and glances at Rosie, who seems perfectly happy with her blue pony and two ninjas. “You don’t want her to know that I haven’t had sex?”  
  
“No,” John says and bites his lower lip, “yes. Shit. I don’t want her to know that sex _exists._ ”  
  
“Okay,” Sherlock says slowly. “Good luck with that.”  
  
“Of course she’s going to find out,” John says with a deep sigh, “in seventeen years or something like that. But not now. We need a code word.”  
  
“Excuse me?”  
  
“ _Knitting._ That’ll do.”  
  
“You want her to think that I’ve never knitted?”  
  
“Have you?”  
  
“Once. For a case. It was quite nice. I finished those mittens later and Mom has been very happy about them. It’s good to have the periodic table always in hand.”  
  
John blinks. “Right. So. _Knitting,_ Sherlock.”  
  
“Oh.”  
  
“Yes. You have never _knitted._  
  
“Surely you aren’t surprised.”  
  
John opens his mouth and then presses it shut again. “No. Though I wondered –“  
  
“I really haven’t.”  
  
“Okay. Well, do you... did you… did you always dislike… _knitting?”  
_  
“I don’t _dislike_ it,” Sherlock says, “I just never found anyone with whom I wanted to knit.”  
  
“Because you never fancied anyone,” John says, slowly.  
  
Sherlock takes a deep breath. “Well, knitting seems like something that you can very well take care by yourself if you need to. Surely you know what I mean, you do it regularly in the shower.”  
  
“But it’s better if you do it together,” John says with a thin voice.  
  
“Well, I haven’t tested that hypothesis yet, so I wouldn’t know. And it always seemed like a lot of trouble, knitting with another person. So if there were someone I’d like to knit with, they would have to be worth it.”  
  
John nods. Sherlock pauses and waits for something to happen, but John barely keeps staring at him and Rosie is preparing a ninja attack with two ponies and a house made of milk carton.  
  
“And it wasn’t like I could just ask you.”  
  
John blinks.  
  
“ _John, would you give me my phone, please, and by the way can we do some knitting later today?”_  
  
“What?” John barks.  
  
“You see how it wouldn’t have worked.”  
  
“No,” John says and clears his throat, “and you would have wanted to use... that other word for _knitting._ And it would have been a surprise. Kind of. I think a bloody head in the fridge got my standards for surprises quite high a long time ago, but…”  
  
“But you wouldn’t have knitted with me.”  
  
“I was _married_ ,” John says, “and before that… I don’t know anymore. Perhaps. But do you mean that… I’m the only person you ever wanted to knit with?”  
  
“Pretty much,” Sherlock says, “definitely. Are you uncomfortable with that?”  
  
“Yes,” John says, quiet, “it’s kind of terrifying. I’m just me, Sherlock. I’m just an ordinary bloke with a lot of issues.”  
  
“You are everything.”  
  
John gulps. “Okay. Fine. I mean… _thanks._ And now?”  
  
“Please elaborate, John.”  
  
“Do you still want to knit,” John says, “with me? Is that why you brought it up?”  
  
“In past two weeks, we’ve kissed in four different occasions,” Sherlock says. John throws a glance at Rosie. “Oh, surely she’s allowed to hear _that._ ”  
  
“Yeah,” John says slowly. “I suppose she’ll notice, anyway.”  
  
“That her dads are kissing.”  
  
John clears his throat. “When you put it that way, it sounds so…”  
  
“Gay.”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Well, I am gay. Surely you realize that.”  
  
“Yes,” John says and sighs, “and it’s all fine. I told you before I first killed a murderer in front of your face. So, back to kissing.”  
  
“Yes. We have been doing that, and so I thought we might be heading towards knitting. Some day in the future.”  
  
John stares at his own hands with a lot of concentration. “I think I will be up for it. One day. Quite soon, though. But, Sherlock, you realize that I haven’t ever… done it with another man. So it’s kind of like I haven’t knitted either. At least not the kind of knitting we are going to be doing.”  
  
“But you’re willing to. With me.” Sherlock tries to stop holding his breath.  
  
John nods, closing his eyes for two and a half seconds.  
  
“You don’t have to, you know. Of course I’d appreciate if you didn’t bring your knitting friends here, but you could go to club or whatever you people do, find someone and knit with them. Somewhere else. I would be here for Rosie. And I wouldn’t ask afterwards.”  
  
“You would know, though.”  
  
“Obviously.”  
  
“No. I’m not doing anything like that, not to you. Or to me. I’m not doing that to _us._ ”  
  
“But you would get to live with me and fear for your life regularly as we solve cases and you would still get to knit with women, too.”  
  
“I will knit with you,” John says and blushes, “if you still want to. Not today and perhaps not this week, but… we will. It’s the two of us now, Sherlock. You know that.”  
  
“Thank you.”  
  
“It’s not…” John draws a sharp breath, “you don’t have to… I’m in this, too. I’m… we should eat something.”  
  
“We _are_ eating.”  
  
“It’s tea and biscuits. It doesn’t count. I’ll have to listen people complaining about having a flu for the whole day. I definitely need breakfast. Can you watch Rosie for half an hour?”  
  
“Yes,” Sherlock says, and Rosie looks at him, smiles and smashes the milk carton house with the blue pony, “we’ll be here.”  
  
  
**  
  
  
“So,” John pauses to smile at Rosie, who is looking at children’s slide, “what do you think people are saying?”  
  
“People?”  
  
“People we know. Molly, Greg, Mrs. Hudson. Even Mycroft.”  
  
“I don’t usually listen that much. Do you have any specific topic in mind?”  
  
“Us,” John says and clears his throat, “I meant to ask if you know what they’re saying about us.”  
  
Sherlock turns to look at John, who throws a glance at him and then fixes his eyes on the slide. “Why?”  
  
“No reason,” John says with a deep frown. “I was just wondering, you know, if they think we are… that we might be… that we might have become…”  
  
“That we occasionally kiss each other and that we’ve talked about sex.”  
  
John coughs. “Yeah. That.”  
  
“I don’t really care, but I can ask them if you wish.”  
  
“No. Definitely not.” John shifts on the bench that actually is quite uncomfortable to sit on. Rosie is now staring at a golden retriever who’s sitting on the other side of the park. The kid has good taste already. “So, you don’t really care?”  
  
“No,” Sherlock says. “Unless their thoughts affect your behavior, I don’t see what difference it would make.”  
  
“But it would be nice to know what they think.”  
  
“Ask them,” he says. Perhaps his tone was a bit too sharp, because John flinches and turns to stare at him. Sherlock takes a deep breath. “You don’t want them to know. It’s fine. We don’t have to tell them. But John... they’re going to find out.”  
  
John straightens his back. “Perhaps we should just tell them and be done with it.”  
  
“You’re afraid they are going to think you’re gay.”  
  
John coughs and then chuckles. “It’s probably a bit too late to worry about that now. I could always tell them that you’re the only man I fancy.”  
  
The golden retriever leaves. Rosie starts to cry.  
  
“You fancy me,” Sherlock says as John is kneeling down onto the grass, holding Rosie.  
  
John freezes. Rosie keeps on crying.  
  
“I thought you had figured that one out,” John says.  
  
“You never said.”  
  
“I’m not… good at saying things,” John says, his shoulders tensing. “I suppose you aren’t either.”  
  
“I told you I haven’t had sex.”  
  
“Knitting,” John says quickly, “it’s _knitting._ I meant different things.”  
  
Sherlock opens his mouth and then shuts it.  
  
“I think Rosie would like to try the slide,” John says and glances at him over his shoulder. “Would you mind going with her?”  
  
He frowns and John smiles. It’s brilliant.  
  
  
**  
  
  
“I’m glad you two worked things out”, Lestrade says and steps over a pile of plastic ponies. “I kind of worried about you both when he was on drugs and you were… not talking to him.”  
  
“Ah,” John breathes out quite heavily. Lestrade doesn’t seem to notice. Rosie is clearly angry because everyone is stepping on her imaginary world. “Greg, I have to tell you something.”  
  
“Yes?”  
  
“We are kind of together now."  
  
“Yeah, I know,” Lestrade says and then freezes. “ _Really?_ ”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“I’m glad,” Lestrade says, “I thought you’d never figure it out. I really have to go now, but could you tell him we caught the zookeeper? The man had hidden them all in his cupboard, like Sherlock said.”  
  
“Sure,” John says, looking absolutely confused.  
  
Sherlock turns his eyes back on the eyeballs that have twenty-four minutes left in the glass tube. John throws a glance at him but keeps quiet.  
  
  
**  
  
  
“You told Greg,” he says later that evening, when John is pulling his jumper off.  
  
John turns to look at him and he straightens his back. Surely John knows that he’s watching. John must see how his eyes drop down as John unfastens his belt and pulls the zipper. If John didn’t like it, he would say something. Surely he would.  
  
“I didn’t think you were listening,” John says, setting his trousers aside. Not very skillfully, though. They’ll get wrinkled.  
  
“John,” he says, his voice lower than he meant it to be. John flinches. “That was nice. I’m glad you told him. It’s like –“  
  
“Like I’m not so fucking clueless anymore,” John says with a deep sigh and sits down next to him. “Sherlock, I think Greg is going to tell Molly.”  
  
“Molly knows already. She deduced it two weeks ago when you were very unreasonable about our cleaning standards. She’s fine.”  
  
John raises his hand but doesn’t seem to know what to do with it. " _Sh_ _erlock._ The thing Eurus made you do…”  
  
“I’m fine,” he says. “And Molly is, too. Apparently she forgave me again.”  
  
“It’s not like you had much of a choice,” John says with a quiet voice. “But I just wish I could make it undone.”  
  
“For me,” he says, “or for you?”  
  
John looks away. They’re sitting on the bed and there’s four and half inches between their thighs. At this point Sherlock usually picks up the article he’s been reading, John complains about his weird habits and complete lack of regular human skills, then sighs quite happily and falls asleep, and he focuses either on the article or the odd noises John makes asleep.  
  
Now he doesn’t know how they could get there. John is biting his lip and very pointedly not looking at him.  
  
“I wasn’t able to delete it,” he says. “But it’s been a long time, John. I’m fine.”  
  
“For a few seconds I thought you might shoot yourself,” John says with a very thin voice, “hell, for a few seconds I thought you might shoot me. But I don’t think about that so often anymore. What she made you say to Molly… I think I remember the whole phone call. Exact words. Your tone.”  
  
“John.”  
  
“I think it’s because now we are… you and me, we…”  
  
“John,” he says when John falls quiet, “surely you know I didn’t –“  
  
“Yes.” John sighs. “I wish I could have stopped it.”  
  
“You warned me,” he says, “back there. When I went down to meet her. I didn’t listen.”  
  
John gives out a dry laugh. “You never do. So, what are you planning to read tonight?”  
  
“I think I’ll just watch you sleeping.”  
  
John frowns at him. “That’s sweet.”  
  
“It really isn’t,” he says. “Have I told you that you snore?”  
  
  
**  
  
  
John is still breathing heavily as they push the door open and walk to the living room. Sherlock stays in the doorway, his hands buried deep into the pockets of the coat, and John walks around the room and keeps making those weird sounds that resemble laughing.  
  
“Oh my God,” John says to the window, perhaps to the old lady who’s staring at them from across the street, “oh _fuck,_ unbelievable, I don’t think I’m going to sleep one second tonight –“  
  
“Your reflexes were quite good,” Sherlock says. “Thank you for that. Are we going to go to get Rosie?”  
  
“What?” John turns around, frowning.  
  
“The case is over. We got the killer and neither of us is seriously injured. Mrs. Hudson is probably sleeping, but we could just take Rosie and leave her a note – “  
  
“We can’t sneak Rosie out without waking up Mrs. Hudson,” John says and takes a deep breath. “It might be better if we let her stay there until morning.”  
  
“But –“, Sherlock pauses. He is going to finish that sentence, he really is. He just doesn’t have time. John walks at him, grabs his shoulders and kisses him.  
  
They’ve kissed before. Many times. Lately almost every day. Once John even pushed his hands under Sherlock’s shirt. He tried to bite back the groan but didn’t succeed, and John broke the kiss and drank two kettles of tea afterwards.  
  
But this is different. When he presses tighter against John, John only comes closer. When he groans into John’s mouth, John bites his lower lip and he’s quite certain it’s not an accident. When he places his hands tight onto John’s lower back, John pushes his fingers into his hair and mumbles something incoherent onto his chest.  
  
_Wait._ It’s not barely swearing this time. It’s an actual sentence. John is trying to ask something.  
  
“Would you mind,” John keeps going, “Sherlock? _Sherlock?”  
  
_ Sherlock swallows. He should ask for more information, John isn’t making sense right now, but before he gets to it, John’s fingers are undoing his zipper.  
  
“What?” he manages to ask. His voice is low and quite breathless.  
  
“Can I?” John asks, one hand on his neck and one pushing his trousers down. “Do you want me to?”  
  
“Please proceed,” he mumbles and leans his head against John’s. John is holding him by his shoulder now. It’s quite possible that John is actually keeping him on his feet. He bites back the moan.  
  
“My hand is trembling,” John mutters as his fingers seek Sherlock under the fabric. Linen gets pushed aside. Sherlock’s pants might be half-undressed by now. He doesn’t care, he just kisses John’s left ear as John’s fingers close around him.  
  
“Yes,” he confirms.  
  
“I’m nervous as hell,” John says and presses against him until he takes a step back. His shoulders hit the wall and he lets the back of his head lean against it. _Breathe. Just breathe._ “My heart’s pounding madly and my hand’s trembling. I can’t believe that I’m.. that you’re…”  
  
“ _John,”_ he says, pretty much the only thing in his head right now. He’s done this before, of course, alone, with his own hand. It doesn’t feel the same. He can’t tell what the difference is and he’s also having trouble breathing.  
  
“Just breathe,” John says and carefully tucks Sherlock’s pants to his knees. “Hold onto me and breathe.”  
  
“I want…” he says, “to do.. something… to…”  
  
“Soon,” John says and kisses his neck. The kiss is wet and somehow clumsy. He groans aloud and John tightens his grip. “ _Fuck._ Do that again. Do that and I swear I’m going to make you fucking –“  
  
He breathes out and comes, undeniably, on John’s hand. _Really?_ he thinks, after all those years it’s that _easy_ , but his thoughts aren’t very clear at the moment. John is still holding him in his hand and caressing his neck with the other. He mumbles something that might be poorly articulated _John_ and John straightens his back to kiss him on the mouth.  
  
“Yeah,” John says against Sherlock’s jaw, “I’m here, I’m right here. It’s alright.”  
  
“I know…” he says, “...that it’s… alright.”  
  
“I got you,” John tells him, not making a sense _at all._ “Was it good? Did you like it?”  
  
“Ah,” he says, “stop being such an… idiot. Of course it was… good.”  
  
“You’re out of breath.”  
  
“I’m doing the same… to you,” he says, making his voice as low as he can. John flinches just a little. He places his hand tighter on John’s back and pulls the man closer. John is still fully dressed and obviously very hard. Sherlock might be lacking his pants at the moment but at least he can breathe again. “I’m going to push your trousers down and wrap my fingers around you. I haven’t done that before, not with somebody else’s _…_ penis, or whatever word you prefer to these kind of situations. But I’m a fast learner. You know I am. You’re going to be gasping for breath.”  
  
“Yeah?” John asks, raising his eyes to meet Sherlock’s.  
  
He nods. “In a minute.”  
  
It’s quite possible that John is smiling at him. He doesn’t really mind, though.  
  
  
**  
  
  
“Fine, we’re done here,” Greg says after they’ve given their statement and a ridiculous amount of useless paperwork is finished. “You two can go now. Do you have work today, John?”  
  
“No,” John says, “thank God. We’ve actually began knitting. We might do a bit of that later.”  
  
“You and Sherlock?” Greg frowns. “Knitting?”  
  
“Yeah”, John says. “It was a bit weird at first but we’ve really enjoyed it anyway.”  
  
Sherlock coughs and almost collides with Greg’s desk.  
  
  
**  
  
  
John’s mouth is pressed shut. Sherlock thinks he can hear his own heart pounding.  
  
“If we don’t make it –“, John hisses.  
  
“We will,” he corrects. It’s just an ordinary murderer. John has his gun. One good shot, and the man in the alley behind them is screaming with pain but without permanent injury. They’ll have to run a bit but it’s not that bad. They are going to get away before the man can even get his gun back to his hand. And it’s dark. The murderer might miss but John won’t.  
  
“If we don’t,” John says, “there’s something you need to know.”  
  
“Just shoot him at the leg.”  
  
“I think I love you.”  
  
Sherlock blinks. John takes a step around the corner and shoots.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not a native speaker, feel free to point out the prepositions I got wrong (and why do you English-speaking people have so many of them anyway, just wondering). Also, you can say hi in [tumblr](http://toyhto.tumblr.com) if you wish.


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